


My Thanks

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Incest, Knife Play, M/M, Mild torture, Possessive Sherlock, Sherlock is darker than we think, Sub!John, dark!Sherlock, dub con, holmescest (sort of), non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always loved experimenting and no one knows that better than Mycroft. But now that John is in his life, Sherlock has a new potential labrat. Mycroft can't resist trying to warn John away... and Sherlock doesn't like that very much. It's time for Mycroft to be punished.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> For a [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?thread=119977247#t119977247) on the BBC kink meme.
> 
> My first "dark" fic... and it was fun.

_“It would serve you well to be cautious, Doctor Watson. Sherlock Holmes is not the man you think he is. He’s a danger to everyone around him in ways that you could never imagine. He’ll get bored of you, and believe me the only thing worse than his interest is his boredom.”_

_“That right? Speaking from personal experience, then?”_

_“Regrettably.”_

_“If it’s all the same to you I’ll take my chances.”_

Back in the relative security of his office, Mycroft Holmes links his hands behind his back and stares worriedly out the window, not paying attention to what he’s seeing. The talk with John Watson had gone about as well as he expected. Sherlock is nothing if not a good actor. It’s one of the reasons Mycroft has never been able to do anything about him. People might hate Sherlock Holmes but they find it difficult to believe that he would really do anything truly heinous, no matter what that young snapping sergeant might say about him.

He closes his eyes and contemplates John Watson, army doctor. His attempt to warn the man away from Sherlock had backfired. It's unusual, the kind of loyalty that John seems to feel for Sherlock already. Mycroft isn't used to that. Sherlock isn't, either. He wonders, briefly, whether John might have a positive effect on Sherlock. No one else has. Perhaps Doctor Watson will be the one who finally crosses that line and helps to mould Sherlock into the good man that he pretends to be.

Maybe.

But just in case he doesn't think he'll be visiting his younger brother anytime soon.

The sun is starting to go down and he turns away from the window, tired after another long day. His assistant - her name is Delilah today - is waiting for him outside, patient as always. She trails him as he strides down the corridor and they walk outside together, though she remains a half step behind him. The driver is waiting and opens the door and Mycroft climbs in first. He can't relax; his hands remain tense over his umbrella, and if Delilah notices his discomfort she makes no reference to it. Indeed, she never lifts her eyes from her phone and he is reminded all over again of how very good she is at her job.

"Your first meeting with the ambassador is tomorrow morning at nine. Shall I reschedule?" she says as the car pulls up in front of his building.

"No, I could use the distraction. I'll let you know if I change my mind," he answers as the door opens.

"Very good. Evening, sir."

"Good evening." He climbs out and walks inside alone. In spite of his growing paranoia he does like a bit of time to himself, behind the walls of his flat where he knows he's safe. He looks forward to curling up with a good book and having one of the pastries that he purchased from the bakery down the road as a treat. Despite the hints Sherlock so enjoys dropping, he's not overweight, not even close, and he doesn't believe the occasional indulgence hurts.

He takes his time with a long hot shower and dresses in a pair of cotton pyjamas and a dressing grown. He pours a glass of wine and takes the pastry into the living room with him, settling down in front of the telly. There's not much on and meaningless television tends to make his mind ache for want of anything to do, but he forces himself to sit through a couple of shows whenever he can. It makes him look good and seem more normal when he can pander to people with causal chatter every once in a while. He takes a couple bites of pastry, chews, swallows. The silky sweetness makes his throat ache but he keeps eating until it's gone, and then he wipes his fingers on his handkerchief instead of licking them because there are some lines he doesn't cross, even in private.

The room is growing hazy and dark around him and he feels lightheaded. Some part of him is alarmed but it's hard to care when he wants to put his head down and sleep for a while. His head rolls to the side, landing on one of the pillows, and just before his eyes flutter shut he's pretty sure he sees a dark shadow with curiously light eyes standing over him.

\---

A sharp but familiar pain wakes him up. It starts at his shoulder and is dragged slowly down his arm in a thin line that makes his nerves fizzle. Mycroft drags his eyes open and stares up at the fuzzy ceiling which seems strangely far away. There's a disorienting pause in which the source of the pain leaves and then something - no, someone leans over him and his heart skips a beat out of pure fear. He'd recognize those wild black curls anywhere. It's his baby brother and he can't help but notice Sherlock does not look happy.

"Awake, Mycroft?" he says, his deep voice a rumbling purr. He sounds pleased, though, and that's never a good thing.

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, or tries to say. He's not gagged for once but his tongue still feels thick and heavy and it's hard to form words.

"Don't bother to speak, dear brother. I really have no interest in listening to the words you come out with. I already know everything I need to know." His hand passes over Mycroft's face, a blur of silver, and Mycroft's mouth goes dry. "Really, did you think that you could get away with it? That John wouldn’t ask me questions about the strange man who seemed obsessed with me? He called you a stalker.” His lips twitch into a faint smirk. “Are you my stalker, Mycroft? I think it’s an oddly correct assumption.”

“Please.” That word comes out fully formed, not that it’s going to do him any good. It’s been a long time since he’s been like this, flat on his back on a bed with his hands and legs tied down so firmly that there’s no hope of struggle. He’s stayed away from Sherlock well enough to make sure of that. This right here is, he knows it’s his own fault for interfering and that knowledge burns.

Sherlock sees the realization in his eyes. Another sharp burst of pain in Mycroft’s other shoulder as he says, “How dare you approach my property and try to convince him to leave off, Mycroft? John Watson is _none of your concern_." There’s a sharp bite to his voice, a rage that’s tempered by a desire to inflict his frustration on the nearest (un)willing body, and Mycroft feels a jolt of pure fear that makes it hard to breathe.

The knife returns again and makes a slow angular slide across his stomach. Sherlock is patient and takes his time, enjoying every bit of skin that parts beneath his tender administration. He leans down and slowly draws his tongue over the wound, leaving behind a smear of blood. When he stands up, his eyes are a shade too bright. 

It’s agonizing, pain beyond what Mycroft could have imagined. Somehow time has dulled his memory, making him believe that it wasn’t so bad, but this is bringing it back in a horrifyingly real smear. Small sparks of pain – his palms, the soft underside of his wrists, his elbows, just underneath his nipples, along the hollows of his throat, the crease of his hips, on either side of his belly button, the sensitive skin of his navel – make him tense, biting at his tongue in an effort to keep back the cry. Because he knows that this is just the tip of it, that Sherlock can and will get _so much worse_ if he’s given the right incentive.

There’s a long pause during which he dares to open his eyes, breath rattling in his chest, and he sees that Sherlock is hovering over his groin, thoughtful, but eventually he moves down. The knife returns: the inside of his thighs, and that makes him jump, and then the back of his knees, the heel of his foot, below each toe. Mycroft doesn’t realize he’s whimpering after each time the knife kisses his skin until he hears Sherlock chuckle. 

“So predictable. Even you, and yet somehow this never makes me bored,” he murmurs, making one last knick on the curve of his right foot. All of the wounds are small, probably no bigger than an inch or two, yet they’re strategically placed to burn and they do. It hurts. Mycroft writhes in his bonds, trying unsuccessfully to struggle free.

“Please, Sherlock,” he says through gritted teeth. “You do know you could go to prison for this.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says casually, and then long fingers curl around Mycroft’s cock. “But who would believe that you don’t enjoy my work?” He knows just how to touch, how to make Mycroft hard in the span of a few minutes. Sherlock is a scientist at heart, after all, and even while he’s learning about pain he’s learned about pleasure, too. He knows enough about the workings of the human mind to understand that this is a different kind of torture, and the light in his unnatural eyes tells Mycroft that he enjoys seeing Mycroft squirm from this most of all.

“John.”

It takes Mycroft a moment to realize that Sherlock isn’t speaking to him. He can crane his neck at just the right angle to watch as John Watson steps forward from where he’s been standing on the far side of the room. Mycroft curses himself inwardly for not having noticed the doctor before. That’s what Sherlock does; he swallows up the air and focus in the room until all attention is on him. He wants Mycroft to know that John is there, but why? Mycroft is afraid to find out.

John stops a handful of steps away from Sherlock. There’s an odd look on his face, torn between revulsion and something Mycroft can’t identify. “Sherlock, you – ”

“John,” Sherlock says again, this time a request for silence. It works and Mycroft’s heart sinks as Sherlock holds a hand out to John.

To his credit, John hesitates. One can almost see the moral dilemma waging war across his face. Does he take the hand of evil? The hand of a man that he already feels loyalty to, the man he’s killed to protect, the man that has given him something to live for? Or does he turn away, turn his back on that man, and either die by that man’s hand or, possibly worse, go back to a life where there is nothing and no one. Mycroft knows what his answer will be before John takes Sherlock’s hand, carefully, and bites his lip anxiously. Sherlock smiles and some of the tension leaves John’s body until Sherlock speaks.

“Strip.”

“What?” John’s eyes widen slightly. He opens his mouth to question but Sherlock gives him a sharp look and squeezes his hand. John’s mouth snaps shut and silently he obeys, methodically pulling his jumper off and unbuttoning his jeans, pulling the zip down, stepping out of his shoes. Mycroft can’t watch but he can’t look away; there’s something in Sherlock’s face that he’s never seen before and it causes a cold hard knot of ice to form in his stomach.

“Come here,” Sherlock says. He guides John onto the bed, kneeling over Mycroft’s erection. It’s obvious what’s about to come but it’s still a shock. Sherlock grabs Mycroft’s cock by the base and guides it to John’s entrance. At the same time he places a hand on John’s shoulder and presses him down. John’s thighs tremble as he sinks down and a whimper escapes him. He’s loose, open, the slide inside suspiciously easy. The lines in his back are fraught with tension and he sits there, shaking, impaled, his knees on either side of Mycroft’s body. Mycroft is torn between pleasure and pain, his cock hard and enveloped by sweet silken warmth while the rest of him throbs, nerves tingling with a slow burn as sweat trails across the wounds.

“There you are. So beautiful, John. _My_ John…” The kiss doesn’t surprise Mycroft. Sherlock is just tall enough that he can lean over the bed and pull John to him, hungrily, devouring John. John whimpers again and clings to his shoulders, using Sherlock to hold himself up. When Sherlock breaks the kiss he allows John to bury his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. It means Sherlock can look over his head at Mycroft with an expression that is unquestionably triumphant.

“Did my come ease the way for you, Mycroft?” he asks. Judging by his smirk, he knows the answer. His hands trail lazily down John’s sides, stroking the trembling skin. “I had him while we were waiting for you to wake up, you know. He squirms so beautifully when he’s coming. I thought perhaps you would like to see that your warning was as pointless as you are.”

“Sherlock, stop this!” Mycroft manages to gasp, his eyes rolling back when John’s inner muscles unintentionally clamp down. Sherlock just chuckles and steps back from John, strolling to the height of the bed. He leans down and trails a finger across Mycroft’s cheek.

“But Mycroft, you are always impressing upon me the need to be appreciative and this is my thank you,” he says. “Without your interference, I might have made John into one of my experiments and missed out on how very fascinating he can be. You made me realize that John can help me in a different way.”

The horror that floods through Mycroft when he hears this cannot be explained with mere words. It comes out as a deep, guttural whine. Sherlock’s smirk broadens and he steps back, moving around to John. He murmurs something into John’s ear and John takes a deep shuddering breath, nodding. Under Sherlock’s guidance he manages to turn around without Mycroft slipping out, until he’s facing Mycroft. His blue eyes are hazy, his lips parted slightly. Blond hair sticks to his face from sweat. He shudders as Sherlock kneels on the bed and presses closer, his front moulding against John’s back.

“Thank Mycroft, John,” Sherlock murmurs, reaching out and grasping John’s cock. It’s already swollen, the foreskin rolled back to reveal the sensitive head, and Sherlock takes full advantage of that, his skilful fingers dancing over the tip. John whimpers and writhes against him, and Mycroft chokes as the movement of John’s body stimulates his cock. God, he doesn’t want to come from this, but his body’s receptors are getting confused, pain and pleasure a heady mix.

Sherlock puts his lips to John’s ear and begins whispering, too soft for Mycroft to hear, but whatever he’s saying has an effect on John. John’s eyes flutter shut and he pushes back against Sherlock with a low grunt. His back arches and he trembles as he comes, his cock painting long stripes of seed across Mycroft’s belly, chest and face. Mycroft is still achingly hard but he lets his head fall back, staring up at the ceiling, the bitter smell of semen flooding his nose. 

“Good boy.” Sherlock physically lifts John off of him, setting John down on the ground with a gentleness that Mycroft wouldn’t believe he’s capable of. “We must be off, Mycroft. I trust you’re comfortable? Oh yes, one last thing.” He takes something out from his pocket and swipes it through the seed on Mycroft’s belly for lubrication. Mycroft stiffens as that something is pressed against his entrance but Sherlock is relentless, pushing it forward whether Mycroft wants it or not. The hard cold object slides deeply inside of him and settles into place and Sherlock steps back. “It would be cruel of me to leave you with no relief,” he says.

“Sherlock!” Mycroft squirms, trying to dispel the object, but it’s no use. Sherlock grins, a terrifying flash of teeth, and then picks John up again. He carries John out of the room and a moment later Mycroft hears the sound of the front door closing, and he knows that Sherlock is really gone, that somehow he’s survived this in much better shape than he usually does, and yes he’ll be trapped here until morning but oh god, _thank god_ Sherlock is gone…

Then the vibration starts.


End file.
